My Reactions to Criticism and Praise

 

Periodically, something will happen spontaneously, reminding me of an internal fragility when I’m exposed to commentary on my writing. Most recently, a local resident and good friend of my neighbor waxed enthusiastic about Harmony, one of my novels. It came unexpectedly. How did I react? Did I swell with pride? Did I walk on air? Did I accept the praise with confidence? No, not really, not to any of the above. I believe my initial reaction was surprise, followed by relief.

Odd, isn’t it? Something I created with great effort over a year of my life, it was not an accident. It was purposive from inception. Of course, I’m delighted when someone favors a creation of mine, but delight arrives secondarily. Surprise and relief briefly hold sway.

Surprise and, then, relief! It brings to mind the flailing of a young child trying to find a way to earn adult approval, especially parental. Am I, in my seventies, responding like a child? Possibly. I think so. Is that unusual? I don’t know. I mean, I do want positive feedback, celebrate quietly when I receive it. To be surprised by it suggests it is unexpected. Why would that be? After all, I created something I want others to find worth in, to enjoy.

Conversely, I’m not as surprised at critique that’s negative, even harsh. Though it has rarely occurred, it is painful for me when it does. Yes, painful, equivalent perhaps to that same child within that feels punished for coming up short, for failing. Again, is this foreign to most or does it hint at something familiar?

I recall a woman at a book signing, uninvitedly criticizing me for language she felt was inappropriate for her young children to read. Though initially stunned, unspoken questions followed. You let young children read an adult novel? How young was young? And judging by your own level of inarticulation, at what level do your children read? (Yes, there was unexpressed venom in that one.) And finally, you traveled to a book signing, typically a moment of celebration, to convey your disappointment and disapproval?

Though fellow writers at the signing, who overheard her criticism, expressed supportive sentiments that this was inappropriate on her part and reflective of who she was, I was still taken aback by the unforgiving edge to her opinion. Beyond my initial shock, I was stung and not able to easily dismiss it. Sadly, it colored an otherwise positive afternoon. And here I am, years later, relating this memory of a cutting judgment, rather than one of many dozens that offered satisfaction, encouragement and gratitude.

That’s me, I tell myself. But is it? Am I an outlier in this respect or merely a member of a herd? What do you think?

I say to the world, yes, I am open to criticism. But I still flinch when it arrives.